Chapter Text
There's something to be said for the jittery footage David manages to capture, their first time out. It is its own form of cinematic vision, odd zooms and awkward jolts as David dances to keep up with Merab as he spins and leaps across the living room. They sit shoulder to shoulder on the floor in front of the couch once they’re done, breathing hard as they rewatch the video.
A smile creeps onto Merab's face. "This is awful," he says, even as he's opening Instagram and selecting a filter to post it with.
Coming up with witty captions isn't something that comes easy to Merab, so he selects 🌪 instead, and hits post before his second-guessing has him not posting anything at all.
He hits the button on the side of his phone, turning off the screen, and stands. It's time for him to go to work, and he refuses to think about this more than he needs to.
*
There are three hundred likes on the post when he comes home.
Merab feels warmth in his chest, but doesn't let himself go as far as to label it with hope.
*
Mary is a much better photographer than David. They talk Aleko into letting them use the studio at the end of the day, once everyone is gone, and she drags along fairy lights from her bedroom, illuminating the floor so that it looks like stars.
Merab is careful to stay within the square of the lens's view, not using as much space as he normally would. They watch the video after he's finished and it's as if he's become a shadow in the dark of the room, the lines of him glittering even if the details are lost to the darkness and years-obsolete quality of his phone's camera.
She has him pose, taking stills, and helps him post them all, a little three by three grid like the professionals do. She tags London, Paris, New York, Berlin, Los Angeles, Beirut, Madrid, Melbourne - all the places they've dreamed of visiting in the far off sort of way that never seemed possible. The description is cryptic, a brief Soon! followed by a wall of hashtags.
He starts getting likes and comments right away, people asking what sort of style it is that he dances, saying that he looks like a fairytale prince. Mary jumps on him, laughing, "I told you," in her snottiest voice, and then takes a turn at dancing while Merab starts packing up their things so that they can go home.
In the morning he wakes up to a long line of notifications on his phone, people sharing his posts on their own stories. He has six hundred new followers, the majority of which he manages to trace back to a principal dancer from New York.
Merab goes to his profile and loses an hour backreading, inspired and jealous at the same time by all the videos the man has of himself dancing in glamorous bone-white studios, on the streets, at the beach, scrolling on and on. There are photos of him kissing what seems to be his boyfriend, another dancer, and there are some videos of them performing with one another too, their bodies strong and powerful, twisting around one another from one move to the next.
It's what he wants, more than anything, his body practically aching with it.
He dithers over following back before chickening out, copying the man's profile link and opening it in Safari instead, so that he can revisit it to his heart's content without anyone knowing.
*
Merab thinks it's spam, at first. He's gotten direct messages like this before, offers for him to reach out that inevitably turn into something strange. Invitations to collaborate that always seem to require him to give before he gets, promises of items that somehow require giving them money first before he actually gets to see anything.
The strangest thing is that it comes from a locked account, one with only a couple hundred followers. Merab asks to follow her before he responds to the message; she grants him access near-instantly, and he sees that her posts are mostly of the city she lives in, which according to her profile is Berlin.
He goes back to her message and runs it through Google Translate a second time, just to make sure that he didn't misunderstand: she says she's a choreographer for a dance troupe in Germany and wants to know if Merab has ever thought of relocating.
There's a part of him that wants to tell her that he's thought of literally nothing else, but he isn't sure that desperation is all that good of a look. His English isn't remotely good enough for him to pull off the sort of humor that he’d want to convey, either.
He types his response into the app and converts it into English, like she had done, before wondering if he should do it in German instead. He hits send before he can dither further, typing and retyping the message over and over.
I would be interested. What is your business like?
There's a six-hour difference between Berlin and Georgia. Merab is terrified that all his time spent waffling means that she's now asleep.
Or worse, gotten into a conversation with someone else.
We're wonderful! Do you have time for a call tomorrow?
*
Merab doesn't tell anyone about his conversations with Sofia. He fills out paperwork in the middle of the night, telling himself that it doesn't matter. David still records him in the evenings, generating content for his account, even though both of them are drop-down tired from work. He goes on with his life and doesn't let himself think about what'll happen if this crazy plan of his works out.
And then his visa is approved.
*
His grandmother hugs him for a long time on the platform, clinging to his back. David stands beside her, his arm thrown over their mother’s shoulders.
"Promise that you'll let me visit," David says, teasing, but when it's his turn for a hug, he clings to Merab just as tightly.
Merab clings back, suddenly wondering if this is the right choice after all. He opens his mouth, no idea what to say but needing to say something.
David pulls back, looking him in the eye, and says, "This will be so good, Merab." His smile wavers at the edges and he blinks rapidly, his eyes going glassy. "Don't be frightened."
Merab carries his bag onto the train, just the one, light because at the end of it all there isn't much that he has to bring with him: the contents of his memory box, a few pairs of clothing. He’d told his mother that the reason he was leaving the majority of it all behind was that he’d need them when he returned to visit, but the truth is that most of what he owns isn’t worth the extra effort it would take to lug them around, nevermind the fees they’d bring once Merab reaches the airport.
The cabin where his seat is reserved is mostly empty, though everything Merab’s read online has said that passengers increase the further west he goes. Merab is excited to see the types of people who take this journey - dreams of being someone that others look at and imagine a glamorous life for, wondering just where it is that he’s headed.
The train has only just departed the station when, out of all the empty seats surrounding him, someone sits right across from him.
Merab blinks. It's Irakli. He opens his mouth, about to ask what or how or why, even.
"David told me," Irakli says. He smiles, leaning into the space between them.
Merab still follows Irakli on Instagram, even though the other man rarely posts, certainly not since he returned to his home town. Merab had wondered, sometimes, if Irakli has seen Merab's posts, though the lack of likes or hits on Merab's stories never inspired much hope, and he was actually good at staying his heart, keeping it to idle wonder.
But maybe he’d been talking to David directly, getting updates of what Merab had been up to in secret.
"I'm so proud of you." Irakli keeps advancing, until he can press his forehead against Merab's, fingers stroking into the skin of Merab's neck.
Merab surges forward and kisses him, both of his hand's coming to cup Irakli's face. Irakli kisses him back just as passionately, fingers digging into Merab's shoulders.
Irakli's hand on his shoulder tightens, shaking him. Merab kisses him deeper, frowning —
"We've arrived at the airport," a kind, elderly woman says, speaking English. Merab blinks up at her, confused for a thousand reasons, least of all the language barrier.
His neck aches, bent at an awkward angle from where he's leant against the window. There's a mother and her child sitting across from him, collecting their things.
He swallows.
"Thank you," he says, English awkward on his tongue.
She frowns at him. "Are you alright?"
Merab nods, sitting up so fast that he feels a bit light-headed. "I'm fine," he says. "Bad dream."